Rended
by Anansay
Summary: Sometimes it takes something terrible to open peoples' eyes and make them see.
1. Grissom

****

TITLE:RENDED

AUTHOR:ANANSAY

RATING:PG-13

SPOILERS:None

DISCLAIMER:I do not own these characters. They are owned by CBS. I'm just borrowing them. I'll return them, I promise! 

ARCHIVE:Just let me know where. 

A/N: I'd like to thank my beta who helped make this fic what it is: Papillondae. 

Rended

By Anansay

He saw it before he felt it. 

He saw it leave the barrel, the bright flash of light causing him to flinch slightly and jerk.

He saw the bullet coming toward him, twisting and turning in the air, cutting it on its way to its destination.

Him.

He saw the bullet growing bigger as it neared him. 

He saw the light flashing off its smooth, lined sides as it zoned in on its intended target. 

He saw the bullet hit his shoulder, tearing through the jacket. He followed it with his mind as it tore through the shirt beneath it and the skin beneath that and ripped into muscle, shattering the bone upon impact. 

He saw all this before he felt it. As he looked down, he saw the hole in his khaki coloured jacket growing. But it wasn't the hole growing, it was the blood saturating his jacket, weighing it down with it's viscous warmth growing in size as it began to wet his jacket, pulled downward by the force of gravity. He imagined his shirt now mostly a dark, bright red, the blood pulsing through the lining of his coat. 

He saw all this in the split second it took his mind to register it. 

He looked up at the barrel… the hand holding the barrel… the arm… the shoulder… the neck… the head… the _face. _

Such a young face full of innocence… and now fear. The eyes bulged out as they zoned in on the darkly growing stain on the jacket. Slowly the young man's eyes pulled up and he could see the look absolute fear… horror… terror that took hold of them. The mouth hung open, the tongue beginning to hang out. The hand shook as the weight of the gun suddenly became too much - the weight of the responsibility becoming unbearable - and the hand snapped open, letting the gun clatter to the floor. 

And that was when he felt it. 

The Pain. 

The agonizing, absolute, mind-wracking pain. 

He had never felt such pain in his life. A small part of his mind informed him that he had never been shot before. 

The pain blinded him as he felt himself falling, sinking into it. His legs spasmed, releasing their load. His body landed on his knees, his hand coming up to the origin of this absolute agony, tearing his mind apart. The wetness forced the reality to sink in. 

He had been shot. In the shoulder. Close to the heart. Too close. 

What if…? 

His other hand came out and braced his falling body from hitting the floor. But it didn't work., only serving as a fulcrum on which his body twisted; the misplaced center making him fall sideways to land with another searing jab of pain as his shoulder hit the floor. The pain shot through his entire body. He grunted and groaned at the same time, the pain forcing some sort of verbal acknowledgment of its reality. 

The room was getting darker, smaller as his eyesight dimmed and closed in on him. He could still see the boy, hand outstretched as though he still held the gun, mouth agape, eyes bulging, immobile. Not a sound. Not even an apology. He just stood there and watched the man fall. 

He lay there, gasping, trying to breathe through the pain. He couldn't move. His body refused to cooperate. He knew he ought to call someone, but his cell phone seemed miles away in his jacket pocket. 

His last thought before everything faded to black emptiness… Sara.

And then he was nothing


	2. Sara

She was running.

Everything dropped where it was, forgotten.

She was running. 

The gunshot sound from the other room… and her body jerked violently, head spun around on her neck toward the sound, causing the tweezers to fly out of her hand, losing the evidence. Her case was upturned as she fell backward before leaping to her feet and heading toward the sound.

She was running. 

And then she stopped. 

Down the hall came the young man - a boy really - and he pushed her aside. She hit the wall with a thud. And then he was gone. 

She was running. Toward the open doorway ahead.

She was running and it was taking too damn long!

She turned the corner and stopped.

He was there, on the floor, eyes barely open and glazed, a pool of blood growing around him. 

She was on her knees beside him in an instant. 

__

"GRISS!!"

Her hands were all over his body, touching… feeling… hoping. 

His breath sounds were faint, a little bubble of saliva barely moving by the side of his mouth. 

She heard footsteps and called out over her shoulder for help in a voice she barely recognized as her own.

Her hand was on his face. It was warm. There was a pulse. He was lying on his left side, his right hand covering his upper chest blood oozing from beneath it, covering the wound… _Oh God…!! No…_ Gently, with shaky fingers she started to lift his hand.

And then she was yanked away, falling hard on her rump. And they were there. The paramedics. He was being moved, rolled over. 

She heard a small moan and she lurched forward. _"Griss?!?" _but a hand came osut and stopped her. "Stay back" came the sharp voice. She heard herself whimper, just wanting to be near him. 

She watched helplessly as they worked on him. Tubes, needles, an oxygen mask, cut clothes, and blood. So much blood. Too much blood. Until all she could see was red. 

She watched helplessly as he was lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled away. She picked herself up off the floor and followed. Offering up her silent prayers.

As the paramedics loaded him into the ambulance she finally found her voice, "Will he be alright?" 

She grabbed his arm, "Will he be _alright?!?" _

"I don't know ma'am. It's up to the doctors." 

Her heart fell out of her chest and landed in her gut with a hollow feeling. She felt as though her soul were being rent alive, ripped, torn, shredded, disintegrating her body, leaving behind only an empty shell. 

Like a robot, she walked to her car, intending to drive to the hospital. A hand grabbed her arm, and she spun around, her fist raised to physically counter an argument. Catherine. 

"Let me drive." she said.

Sara stared at her, and her heart began to pound hard in her chest. Her hand started to shake and then her whole body shook. Her knees gave way. She let out a sob and then Catherine caught her before she fell. 

"Yup, I'm driving." And she put Sara in the car.


	3. Waiting

They sat in the waiting room. 

Warrick sat back in a chair, legs sprawled in front of him, face leaning sideways into the hand propped on the arm rest. Nick rocked back and forth, hands wringing in front of him. Sara was curled up in a chair in the corner, eyes unseeing, dried tears caking her face and wet circles on her shirt where her tears fell. There was blood on her shirt, her hands, her face, but she didn't notice. Catherine sat in a chair and saw all this through eyes that hurt and burned. 

Jim poked his head in, his face a grim expression of his internal feelings. Catherine looked at him and shook her head, _no news yet. _He sighed and joined the hushed group.

Grissom was their leader and friend. The three younger people had looked up to him, trying to please him, not for the job's sake, but because having this man's personal high opinion was something that was felt would honour them in a way nothing else could. 

He had become such a solid figure in their lives, no one had stopped to consider what it would be like if he were suddenly not there. And now, they didn't know if he would live. It had been four hours and nothing. He was still in surgery. The only word they had heard was the he was still in and they were experiencing some trouble. 

Sara sat motionless, her mind frozen on one picture: _him…_ on the floor.. and the blood… _his blood. _There had been so much… _so _much blood and he hadn't been moving. He just lay there, not moving, not saying anything… like he was dead. _NO!!! _her mind screamed. _He wasn't dead… he couldn't be!!_

She knew she ought to move, but her body wouldn't listen. If he was dead, then so was she. She couldn't see any point in living if _he _wasn't. There just wasn't any. 

A man came around the corner and into the room. He was dressed in hospital greens and had a somber expression on his face. Catherine was the first to her feet and in front of the doctor, quickly followed by the Nick and Warrick and Jim. Sara stayed in her seat, not seeing, not hearing, not caring. 

Catherine stared at the doctor with wide eyes. "Well?"

The doctor sighed and looked away. 

A garbled sound was heard from Nick as he took a step back. 

"He's alive, but it doesn't look good." The doctor spoke in quiet monotones. "He lost a lot of blood. The main artery was hit and we lost him a couple of times on the table." He looked down as though weighing his next words. "It was as though his body didn't want to live. His heart rate was weak and we had trouble keeping him here. But he's still alive… I just don't know for how long, or if he'll come around… I'm so sorry…" and then he was gone. 

The nurse came around and brought them to his room, telling them two visitors at a time and only for five minutes. Too much stress, even visitors, could be bad at this stage. Catherine had to shake Sara and pull her up. Sara resisted. "C'mon Sara…" she said gently. 

"I just wanna go home…" she said faintly. 

"No… Grissom needs you… now more than ever!" Catherine spoke the words harshly. 

"No… he doesn't need me… he never did…" 

Catherine turned the younger woman toward her and grabbed her face in her hands to make Sara look at her. "Sara. Grissom needs you. Now."

Sara looked into Catherine's eyes and, seeing something there, something that told her more than she had dared hope, she took a deep breath. "I was too late, Cath… I was too late… I didn't hear him… I was too late…" and she hung her head, her shoulders shaking. 

"It's not too late, Sara… go to him now… let him know you're here… he needs that right now… trust me…!"

Sara pushed the clear plastic curtain aside slowly, trying not to make any noise. The beeping of the machines would have drowned it out, but still… He looked like he might have been sleeping… except for the wires and tubes surrounding him. She swallowed. She felt as though she were intruding on his privacy. She stared at him from her place by the curtain, her eyes traveling over his body, which she knew was naked beneath the thick white sheet. His face was not relaxed however, it was twisted in a knot of pain. The machines sounded the steady rhythm of his heart beat informing her that at least his body was still alive. And the other machine - the one measuring his brain activity - the needle kept going back and forth, like the pendulum on a clock, letting her know that at least that part of him was there as well, even if it was… asleep, so to speak. 

She scanned the room, spotting a chair which she quietly, carefully placed by his bed. She wouldn't want to be in the way in case…s something happened. She sat on this chair and looked down. Not at him. That was too personal right now. Like staring at someone while they slept, seeing on their face what they were afraid to show when awake. But this was not sleep. This was not peaceful, or restful. This was a battle. His body was fighting to stay alive, even when his soul wanted to leave. 

Slowly she brought her eyes to his face. And she stared. She saw his hair, his closed eyes, shut tight against the pain, his lips pursed closed. She saw the wrinkles and crow's feet betraying his age. The sheet was pulled up passed his shoulders so that only his head and neck were visible, the rest was hidden from view. She could see the outline of his hand beside his body beneath the sheet. And she ached to hold it, to feel at least that part of him against her. If only just this one time. 

Slowly she lifted the sheet and snuck in a hand until she felt his skin. She pulled out the hand. It rested limply in hers, a dead weight of skin and bones. It didn't wrap around hers, even though a part of her mind had expected it to. Not like in sleep when fingers curl instinctively around something placed in the palm. No, this was not sleep. And his fingers didn't move at all. Only lay against hers, immobile. 

She rested her hand on the sheet, his in hers, hers on his. His hand was warm, and she could feel his pulse. The one sign that he was alive that she felt for herself, not being told by impersonal machines. His heart still beat. 

Sara sat for a while, just feeling his hand in hers. Nobody disturbed her. Five minutes passed by easily. No one came. She knew the others were around. They had already come in and… did whatever. It was her turn now. And no one disturbed her. So many people to care for. The machines went on beeping their steady rhythm. Nothing to alert them to anything strange or worrisome. So she sat there with him, alone in the room surrounded by semi-translucent plastic, a mock shield against the world out there. 

She knew she ought to speak to him, say something. He could probably hear, through the pain in his mind. But what to say? What did she want to say to him? That she was sorry? That she wasn't there on time to save him? That she was sorry she had pushed him as much as he had pushed her away? That she loved him? 

"Hey…" she started. Wasn't that how they always started their conversations? With the universal call for attention? She looked around and knotted her lips and sighed. "Grissom…" she started again and then stopped. And sighed again. She looked down at his hand… strong and veined, with dry skin. She rubbed it absentmindedly, her fingers gently stroking his skin, anything to feel him again. "I'm so sorry… this shouldn't have happened…" the words were coming now. She could feel them, churning in her chest like some old brew, waiting for a chance to bubble over. "If we would have talked, maybe… maybe this wouldn't have happened. Maybe if we didn't feel the need to be away from each other, we would have been together and you wouldn't have gotten shot… We would have been talking… evidence… playing it out… together. We wouldn't have been in separate rooms, alone. Maybe if we had listened, we might have heard him coming... maybe. But we didn't… and now you're here… and I don't want you to die…" the last part came out on a choked sob, as she closed her eyes and tried to hold back to tears. It was no use, they squeezed out anyway, falling onto their hands. Cold wet tears staining their dry skin a darker tone. She let them come after that, silently letting them fall in her lap as she sat back in her chair, eyes closed, damp eyelashes stuck to her cheeks as the tears bound them there, her body shaking with the pain of this reality. 

"Ma'am…" came the soft voice. 

Sara opened her eyes. A nurse was standing inside the plastic. She hadn't even heard it move. 

"Ma'am, you're going to have to leave now, he needs to rest. So he can get better."

Sara stared at her through tear stained eyes, feeling their wetness on her cheeks as the last of the tears blurred her vision again. She pleaded with the woman, _just one more minute, please. _

"Tomorrow…" came the soft reply to her unspoken plea. 

Sara turned to Grissom, stared at his face a moment and then bent and down and pressed her lips to his wet hand. She held them there a while, relishing in the feel of his skin, praying he wouldn't be upset with her if he ever found out. And then gently tucked his hand under the covers and stood up. With one last look at his closed features, she turned and left. 

She stopped by the nurse and looked her straight in the eye. "Tomorrow. I'm coming back. And I'm staying." She informed her in a voice as strong as she could make it through the tears and pain. 


	4. Hoping

Sara lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, not seeing, not feeling, not thinking. She lay on the bed fully clothed, having allowed herself to simply fall backward on it in sullen despondency. Her body was numb, the clothes barely registering in her mind. She could feel herself slowly sinking into the bed… the covers… the mattress slowly rising to meet and envelop her body, she becoming one with the bed, and then the floor, and then the ground and then nothing. 

The ceiling suddenly seemed so far away as though she really were sinking. As she stared, her eyes roaming around, everything was farther away, the lamp, the bedside table, the door, her feet. It was a disconcerting feeling. She blinked but it was the same, everything so far away, like she was shrinking, or the room was growing. Her head felt funny: thick and dense, like it was filled with cotton balls that were pushing against the backs of her eyelids. Her body felt disjointed, like her head was resting atop another body, not her own. When she moved it was like trying to make another body move, a body that was not used to her ways. 

She sat up in bed, but it was the same. It was almost as though she were looking at everything through a peep hole in a door with everything being distorted and pulled outward. She got off the bed and swayed as her body acclimatized itself to the new visual cues. She felt as though she were walking on stilts and the hallway had grown wider, her arms longer, her feet farther away from her body. 

She turned on the faucets in the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, tensing at the sudden coldness. She looked in the mirror, but it was the same: the mirror far away, her image far away. She squinted and leaned forward but it didn't help. 

Closing her eyes she shook her head, but all that did was make the cotton balls grow and push more on the inside of her skull, the pressure increasing. She grasped the cool rim of the sink, steadying herself, not wanting to see that far away image again. 

She stumbled back to her bedroom. Far away. Everything so damn far away! She spun around, trying to dislodge whatever was causing this distortion, but her balance was lost and she went crashing to the floor. Her nails dug into the carpet, trying to find something to hold, to keep her here, to keep her safe, to keep from falling, from sinking. 

Pressing her eyes shut, she saw Grissom on the floor, blood all around him, eyes open and unseeing. Her body jerked and her eyes snapped open, her breathing coming in hard gasps. She closed them again and saw Grissom lying in that hospital bed, hooked up to every conceivable machine sounding out his life in those steady rhythmic beeps that soon became way too annoying. If visitors could hardly stand that noise, how could he, who had to listen to it day and night, the machines right by his head, constantly beeping… _beep beep beep beep beep! ARGH!!! _

. She looked around herself. Her room was the right size again. Her hands and arms were the right length. Her bed, right beside her face, didn't look half a mile away. It looked comforting, actually. Like an overstuffed teddy bear with its arms opened and begging. 

She yanked open her eyes. Her breathing was hard and fast, heart pounding in her chest, shoulders aching with the effort of keeping herself from falling further into the floor. Her thighs screamed as blood slowly pooled in her folded legs, stomach cramping from the exertion of holding everything in. Slowly she stood, hands bracing her body on shaky knees and undressed before crawling in between the covers, drawing them up to her chin and curling herself into a tight ball on her side. With one last look around her room, she let her eyes fall closed and sleep came for her then. 

~*~

She walked into Grissom's room the next day, first thing in the morning, as soon as visitors were allowed. As she had done yesterday, the plastic curtain was drawn carefully aside as noiselessly as possible. 

He was the same as he had been yesterday, tubes and wires and beeping. That incessant beeping. The chair was back in the corner so she retrieved it and put it back by the bed and sat in it. 

She felt as uncomfortable that day as she had the previous day, wanting to speak to him but not knowing what to say, or how to say it. She reached beneath the covers and brought his hand out again, cradling it between hers, trying to quell her frustration and anxiety. It was warm but still inert, he didn't take her hand in his, didn't hold her. That was her business now, the holding. 

So she sat and held his hand, sometimes letting it rest on the bed in hers, sometimes bringing it up to her face to feel it against her cheek. Just to feel his skin against her cheek. She knew it would look strange if the others at work saw her like this, but she didn't really care at this point. She was not going to back away again and let him die. She was not going to let him push her away. And in this state, he couldn't really do that, so she took advantage of it and stayed where she was, with him, beside him. 

And that was her routine for the week that he was in the hospital unconscious: with him during the day, work as much as possible during her shift and barely any sleep. If they thought she barely slept before, they ought to see her now, she thought, tossing and turning in her bed, staring around her as she fought for sleep to come and yet her mind stayed awake and with Grissom in his hospital bed.


	5. Grey

Grissom was somewhere… it _had _to be somewhere. 

It was dark and gloomy and grey. And cold. Colder than he had ever experienced. 

And he was alone. He hugged his arms to his body, or tried to but there wasn't much of him, only a _feeling _of him. He _felt _himself being cold and there was no relief from it. 

Maybe it was a dream. Or maybe he had really died and this was hell. Looking around him all he saw were various shades of grey all twirled into one another in a sort of morbidly grim beauty. There was no floor, no walls and no ceiling… only a sense of being somewhere… strange. And it was _so cold. _He shut his eyes and tried to will it away, tried to will his body to start functioning and heat up. 

Was he breathing? Was his heart beating? He couldn't feel any of it. A sudden shocking realization plunged him backward and his mouth opened and he tried to scream, tried to force his lungs to throw out the air in a loud raucous screech of pure terror and loneliness. If he was dead… if he was dead, then… Sara. It was all he could think. Sara… alone in that crazy world without him, never having known his true feelings for her. He had never been given the chance to tell her. The pain wracked his body and he wished he could tremble with the force of it. He hung his head and that's when it happened. The first time. 

The blindingly bright light flashed above him and the warmth came pouring down. He looked up, shielding his eyes with his hand, and tried to see what it was. And then with a snap and jerk of his body it was gone. And he was left once again in the pallor of this cemetery, the warmth leaving his body as quickly as it had come. It came a few times and always, with much pain and confusion, it would leave him. Or maybe somebody was taking it from him, as though someone didn't want him to feel it, someone who wanted to keep him there.. And so, once again, he had huddled down into himself, praying for this purgatory to end and release him. This thought crushed him, flattening him so that whatever was sustaining him felt pushed beyond its limit and the pressure was immense. 

And then a most marvelous thing happened to make it so much more bearable. Her voice had come to him, disjointed and floating to his ears on a motionless wind like warm honey seeping into his soul and energizing it. She was here with him. If he could have smiled it would have been huge. If he had arms they would have been outstretched trying to have her come to him so he could feel her once again. There were no words, only bits and pieces here and there, coming and going. But it was her voice and it was here, even if she wasn't. 

If her voice was here, was she dead as well? Then why wasn't she with him? Why couldn't he see her, or feel her, or even sense her? It was then that the thought eased its way into his consciousness. Maybe he wasn't dead. Maybe… he was still alive… somewhere and she was with him, only not here. Maybe… 

He was in the dark, cold, grey void of his soul, that which he had meticulously – though unconsciously - created himself and for himself. And he was alone. Except for her voice, every time it came he would look up and around him, trying to find her. He would call out her name but he never heard his voice. And it was so cold. He just wanted the cold to end. Her voice would never stay with him It always left. 

And then her voice came again and this time it stayed and was louder and it stayed longer. The words came and went in clarity but it was her voice. And it stayed. He strained to hear the words but they sounded as though they were coming through water – thick and muffled. 

And then his hand began to burn. It itched and screamed and burned. The only part of his body to feel any heat in this dead void. He willed the heat to travel the rest of body and animate him once again, but it stayed where it was. So he held it close to his heart, to give his heart warmth and keep it alive so her voice could always find him and comfort him in this place. He needed her voice. It was his link to the real world


	6. Awake

On the day Grissom woke up, Sara was not there. 

The sensations came to him slowly at first and gently. First he was aware of laying down and that his body felt awful. He wondered if he'd gotten drunk but no memory of drinking came to him. He tried to move but his muscles were like lead weight, as though something were holding him down. He could move his fingers and toes but any larger movement met with resistance. He tried to open his eyes but they too felt heavy. When he tried to speak, he found his throat rough and dry. Swallowing was not an option either. 

He could hear something and it was annoying. It kept coming at regular intervals. It was jarring the pain in his head to higher levels. He wanted it to stop. _Please stop…_ He tried to open his eyes again, he _pushed _them open. 

And the white light hit and burned his tender retinas. 

He shut them tight again. 

And something flashed in his mind: _grey _and sudden bright light overhead… and his breath stopped. There was fear now, but no reason for it, at least in his mind of now. He took a deep breath. When he opened them a few seconds later, he was prepared for the bright light and squinted to keep it at a decent level. But it was still too bright. In this way he opened and closed them, slowly adjusting to the light. 

When finally he could keep them open long enough and look around him, he didn't recognize anything, but yet it was familiar to him somehow. Just not something that immediately came to mind. He looked around himself, at the white walls, the white sheets covering his… _naked body…_ Well, that was a new one. Another crucial piece of evidence.

His head pounded, his chest hurt, especially his left shoulder and especially when he tried to move that hand. The pain that shot through him almost blinded him. Craning his head on his neck, he saw the machines. The machines that were making that godawful beeping sound. He saw the tubes coming from his body, from beneath the sheets. Regardless of the heaviness, he brought his right hand up to his face. There was a tube coming from the hand, and when he felt his face there was one from his nose as well. 

An image was forming in his mind. This was all familiar but from a different perspective; from a standing one instead of a prone one. He was in a hospital. He was a patient. And an extremely ill patient at that. The pain in his left shoulder was excruciating, to the point where he almost couldn't bear it. He had suffered migraines long enough to know how to deal with it, but this was something else. Pain in his head he was used to. Pain in his body he was not. 

He tried to recall his last memories but. But the pain in his shoulder prevented his mind from functioning as he was accustomed to. He was on automatic right now, only doing what was needed in order to survive. 

Then there was a noise, a strange one he vaguely remembered. And someone was standing beside him, looking down. A man dressed in a white coat – much like the one he would wear at the lab – was holding a file tucked beneath his arm and smiling. 

"You're awake." He said. His voice rumbled like rolling gravel, which matched his gruff beard and dark, thick, disheveled hair. He was a big man, and from where Grissom lay he appeared even bigger with his broad shoulders blocking out most of the light from the hall way which filtered through the plastic; and his big hands almost covering the file as he looked through it. "You've had us walking around on eggshells wondering if you'd ever come out." 

All Grissom could do was grunt in his throat. It was too dry to allow for words. 

"Here," the doctor said, bending to the side and bringing up a cup. "have some water, looks like you could use some." And then the bed began to move as Grissom's head started coming up. He reached out with his right hand – noticing it shaking quite a bit – and grabbed the cup and started sipping. The cool wetness felt good as it coated his throat. He sipped it until his throat was wet and then he downed the rest of it, feeling it hit his empty stomach with a hollow thump. 

"Thanks," he whispered, his voice still not up to par. "Uh, how long…?"

The doctor looked up from his file. "Six days." And then he frowned. "Do you remember what happened?"

Grissom pursed his lips before shaking his head slightly, still groggy from being out and still feeling the pain. 

The doctor sighed. "You were shot, Mr. Grissom. Do you remember that?"

Grissom looked away as he wracked his memory for some hint. _A boy, or a young man… eyes wide with fear… _"I remember someone… standing in front of me… looking scared… but I don't recognize him."

"Hmm, we'll see if you recognize your friends. A particular young lady has been here everyday since you came in. Sara?"

Grissom's eyes flickered to the big man at the mention of Sara's name before looking away again. _She was here? The whole time? _He closed his eyes and envisioned her sitting in the chair, eyes cast downward. Or would she look at him? Would she touch him? Would she talk to him? And then the final question, Why would she be here at all? 

"Are they here?" he asked, a bit hopeful that maybe he would see Sara and maybe be able to know… why? 

"Uh, no. I think there was a case… or something?" the doctor said with a hint of apology in his voice. 

Grissom looked away. "Oh…" and winced as the pain resurfaced in his shoulder and his body. 

"Look, I'll give you something for the pain and then you can rest. I'm sure they'll be back… at least _she _will. She's here most of the time anyway. Do you want me to call them, let them know you're awake?"

Grissom turned to look at the doctor. _And have them rush over here? _"Uh, no… no that's alright. I'll rest some more." The drip the doctor had set up began to take effect and he felt his body giving in to the sedation and becoming limp… sinking into the bed. His eyes began to unfocus and then to close. And then he remembered nothing. 


	7. Visiting

Even with her heavy gauge room-darkening blinds it still seemed so light in her room and these days it was just too much. So she got up and decided she would go back to the hospital. This was ridiculous. She could just as easily rest with her head on his bed as on her own pillow. So that's what she did. 

As Sara was walking down the hallway toward his room, she heard some familiar voices. 

"I'm worried about her Cath…" Nick was saying in his typical texan drawl. "Have you seen those bags under her eyes? I don't think she's been sleeping much…" 

"I know…" Catherine said, her voice a hushed tone of worry. "I see them too."

"But you know Sara: pushes herself until there's nothing left to push…" came Warrick's deeper soothing voice. 

"I know.. she has to stop this… It's not helping Grissom," Nick was saying. "She's gonna be next in that bed when he's ready to leave this place…"

Warrick sighed. 

Catherine said nothing. 

Leave? Was he awake? 

Sara rounded the corner, poking her head into the waiting room where they were all standing. "Hey guys…" she said, eyeing them all one by one, plastering a fake smile on her face, which she hoped they would not see through. The last thing she wanted right now was a group therapy session. _Just show them you're fine, and they'll leave you alone…_ she thought to herself. 

They regarded her with a mixture of concern, apprehension and a sort of knowing sense. She stared back at them, keeping her smile in place. "Any news?"

Catherine approached her. "Grissom woke up a little bit this morning –"

"What?! Why didn't anybody call me??!" 

But before Sara could go racing down the hall, Catherine grabbed her arm. "Sara, he's coming around slowly but he's still in a lot of pain – "

" – and drugs." Warrick chimed in. 

"So, you know, he's not really up to any sort of sane conversation." Nick finished. 

Sara looked from one to the other, not believing her ears. He had woken up and nobody had bothered to call her? 

"Sara," Nick said, seeing her expression of confusion. "By the time you would've gotten here, he would've been under again…"

"But he was… he woke up…" she said, not really knowing what she was saying. _She _wanted to be here, dammit! 

Catherine squeezed her arm a bit. "Look, we all know how you feel about Grissom, Sara. We know how much you… like him." Sara looked pointedly at Catherine, narrowing her eyes as she absorbed the older woman's words. "But if you're going to be any good for him, you _need _to rest. You can't go collapsing on him as soon as he opens his eyes because you're refusing to sleep – "

"I'm sleeping!" she interrupted. 

"—yes but, how much? Enough to operate properly? Enough to be able to think clearly? Enough to be there for him when he wakes up?"

Sara stared at Catherine, her eyes mirroring her internal turmoil. What was she supposed to do? Sleep?! While he lay in that hospital bed, maybe dying?! Catherine didn't understand. 

"I know you think you I don't understand. I have a daughter, and when she's sick do you think I sleep? No, I don't. But I rest, I try to. And you need to do that too, Sara. You need to rest – "  
" – Not run yourself ragged." Nick finished. 

"I'm fine." 

Warrick shook his head. "You're not fine, girl. Look at yourself. Bags under your eyes, hands shaking – when was the last time you ate? You're living on coffee – caffeine – and that stuff's gonna kill ya like pouring acid down your throat."

"Look. I'm gonna go check on Grissom, make sure he's fine and then… I'll go home to _rest_, alright?"

Warrick sighed. Nick just looked away, too frustrated to say anything, and Catherine just smiled that smile of the all-knowing matriarch. And Sara left. 

When she pulled back the curtain, he was still there, still on the bed and still looking as though he were sleeping. There were fewer wires around him this time, and none obscuring her view of his face. 

She walked quietly into the room, settling herself on the chair that was now a fixture beside the bed. He was sleeping again and now that she knew he had woken up, there seemed to be a more relaxed atmosphere in the room, as well as a pervading sense of privacy disturbed. Even though she had been there everyday that week, holding his hand, talking to him about what had been going on - how they had caught the young man who shot him (turned out to be a scared victim who thought he was only protecting himself), and other cases that had come up, simply because that was what she was used to talking to him about - she shied away from anything any more emotional or personal than that. For some reason, there was this persistent idea that maybe he could hear her and she preferred to share such intimate details of her feelings for him when he could respond, even though another part of her desired to be free of these secrets. 

And now that she knew he was merely resting, the thought of touching his hand – holding it – seemed like such a break in protocol. Hell, even being here, as though she had snuck into his bedroom felt strange and awkward. But there was an overwhelming need to see him awake, alive and well. So she had come again. 

She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. The smell of hospitals always made her slightly queasy, as though the very germs this place was designed to eliminate were running rampant and emitting their own particularly biting scent. But mixed in with this super-sterile smell was the smell of the man who had occupied her thoughts more this past week than at any other time in her life. Even here in this antiseptic environment, he still _smelled _like Grissom: strong, manly, with a sweet hint of tenderness. Her hands longed to touch him one last time before his eyes opened again and he was back to being Grissom: distant and aloof. Such a private man would definitely feel uncomfortable knowing he was being watched while recuperating. But she just couldn't stay away. It was a magnetic force beyond her control when she found herself by his bedside time and time again, his hand in hers. Now his hand lay alone beneath the sheet; her hands clasped tightly in her lap to keep from reaching and taking what was not hers to take. 

She opened her eyes and stared at that spot beneath the sheet, willing for… something to happen… maybe it falling out and she would have to replace it. That small tease of touch might satisfy her… might. 

There was a sound. She looked up. 

His eyes were open and he was looking at her. She sucked in her breath in surprise. "Uh… hey!" she said meekly, trying to hide both her surprise and her embarrassment. 

He stared at her with what looked like confusion on his face mixed with questions. He wanted to know why… why was she here? Here with him? His mouth opened to speak but his throat was dry again and all that came out was a whisper. He closed it and swallowed. 

Sara stood up and leaned over him. 

"Hey…" came his whispered comment. 

She sat back down a small grin on her face. There was a glass of water on the bedside table she presumed was from when he woke up the first time. She picked it up and offered it to him. His right hand slid out from beneath the sheets to take it. Her eyes fell to it, held for so long while he was resting. She watched it take the cup and bring it to his lips and watched his throat bop up and down as he swallowed the liquid. He gave it back to her empty. "Thanks." Came his reply in a more normal tone. 

Sara looked away, not knowing what to do now that he was awake and aware and responsive. She was no longer alone in a room with a man she loved whose body was there but whose person was not. She was here and so was he. And he was probably wondering why she was here and not at work on another case. 

"How're you feeling?" she asked, a question that was probably asked about a million times a day and probably only meant in a fraction of those times. This was a time when it _was _meant. She wanted to know. 

Grissom groaned. "I've been better…" and then smiled. But it was a pained smile. 

"Still in pain." She said simply. 

"Apparently when one gets shot, there's a certain amount of pain to endure while the body heals itself." He answered cryptically with a grin and a raised eyebrow. 

Sara smiled lopsidedly. "Well, I see your distinct brand of humour is still around. You'll be fine." 

He smiled in return, though she could tell it was forced, the pain in his body keeping him from fully enjoying the moment. "They'll be moving me to a new room." He looked toward the plastic. "You know, one with walls and a proper door?" 

She smiled in spite of herself. "So I'll have to knock next time I… come by?" she said before she could catch herself. _Next time? Would there be a next time? _She only hoped she wasn't getting ahead of herself. 

"You'll come back?" he said, his voice rising at the end, like a child hoping his best friend was going to come back, or a young man and the love of his life. 

Sara was taken aback by his response. He _sounded_ as though he wanted her to come back. In truth she had only come for herself. She had needed to see him, in case he…. She had needed reassurance that he was still _around. _"Yeah, I'll come back…" She said, hoping to sound as flippant as she hoped, but her voice came out sounding more serious. "…if you want…" 

Mentally she kicked herself in the butt for adding that last part that sounded more insecure and childish and surreptitious than she had intended, but once again a part of her just needed some reassurance that it would be okay if she returned. That it wouldn't be an imposition. Their relationship - if it could be called that – had been strained of late, with them hardly speaking to each other. He knew about Hank and now she knew about Lady Heather, yet there was still that little tendril of connection that kept her by him especially in times like this. That connection that seemed to defy all boundaries of human love, where two people just wanted to _be _with each other even if they couldn't _be_ together. Knowing that she would see him on a daily basis – even if there no words exchanged except for the obligatory assignation of cases – was enough to keep her going. Just to hear his voice… just to see his face and know that he was alive seemed to be enough of an impetus for her to continue. 

And here she sat by his side, asking if it was okay for her to be there – here – by his side in this place, at this time, in these circumstances. If it was okay for her to _feel _the way she felt. He was looking at her. "I want…" he said quietly, his eyes capturing hers and holding them. She felt the familiar flush rise up from her neck to her face whenever he looked at her. Flustered at the plain example of her still raging feelings for this man, she looked away. 

"Well, now that I know you'll still be around to 'bug' us, I'm gonna be going now." She got up to leave and then turned around. "I'll see you later…" she said and looked at him for a moment longer, a wistful look in her eyes and in her tone. She turned to leave when he called out to her. 

"Sara?"

She froze for a split second before turning around. "Yeah?"

He looked at her for moment, as though trying to decide what to say, or better yet how to say it. "Uh… thanks for being here."

She stood for a moment not doing or saying anything. And then she smiled that toothy smile of hers that she seemed to only give him. "Sure." She said and then with one last look, she turned and left, as quickly as her feet could take her without looking as though she were running away as fast as she could. Which is what she felt like doing. 


	8. Better

Grissom lay in his bed, fighting the pain that still nagged at the sides of consciousness as well as the persistent groggy feeling from the pain killers being continually fed to his body via the tube in his good hand. He was in his new room complete with walls and a door. He was alone and it was getting late. His body had rested so much the past week that now it fought to remain awake and make up for lost time. Every time he heard footsteps in the hall that seemed to be coming toward his door, his heart would speed up hoping it would be Sara. 

The others had already come to visit and he was glad to see them. Sara hadn't been with them that time. Perhaps it had been for the best that she not be for their relationship, he knew, was not at the best of moments. But knowing that she had been to visit him every day since he'd been here had revealed something to him. She had taken the time out of her self-inflicted busy schedule to come and see someone who had persistently pushed her away. In the back of his mind there was a thought, not of words but of feelings, faint yet there, that there was still hope. She had not totally given up hope. She had stayed and she had come to see him. Suddenly he felt something break open inside him – something that had held him back for so long. 

He felt hope. 

There was hope inside him, small yet growing with each thought he had of her and the past few days. He felt his shoulders relax, his face relax, his body relax as it unbent itself back into the shape of a regular human being, not twisted and contorted to fit some mold of someone he was not. He pressed his head back into the pillows and looked up, through the ceiling to the sky beyond it and he smiled. A big toothy ear-to-ear grin plastered on his face as his eyes closed and a chuckle bubbled up from deep inside him, bubbling its way through the muck and mire that had begun to infest his soul. There was hope, after all. 

"Feeling better I see?" came a familiar voice from the door. 

Immediately his head came down but the smile remained. "Sara…" he said under his voice. 

"It's me!" she said and he remembered those same words the day she had arrived in Vegas when he had called her. How he had felt then upon hearing her voice again was how he felt now knowing she was still there, with him. 

She came into the room carrying something behind her back. When she got closer to the bed, her smile still on her face, she brought her hands from around her back. In them was a book. 

He eyed the book, his face showing his glee. It was the latest entomological book that had just arrived on the shelves of only the most prestigious bookstores. "For you," she said as she handed him the book. 

He took it with his good hand. It was big and bulky and his strength had yet to return to its former level so the book almost fell out of his hand. Sara reached forward and grabbed it, at the same time her hand landed on his under the book and she felt the same jolt of electricity at feeling his skin again. Unable to take her hand away lest the book should fall to the floor, she kept her hand on his while her other one came around and grabbed the book. His hand stayed beneath hers. "Sorry," she said. "Forgot how heavy it was and…" she took the book from him and went to place it on the night stand. 

"Just put it on the bed…" he said, his voice lower than usual, his eyes locked on her face. She looked at him and found she couldn't look away. He was staring at her directly as though trying to speak through his eyes to her, the words failing his intellect. 

"Uh… okay," she found herself saying, words failing her. 

His hand had twisted and now held hers in his and her heart leapt into her throat at the touch. His fingers wound around her hand, holding and squeezing it just like she had hoped he would those days when he was in the coma. And now he was doing it. She was looking down at his hand in hers, her breathing coming faster. 

"Would you like me to let go?" he asked her. 

Her eyes came up to meet his. "No… it's just…" she looked down before continuing. "I held your hand while you were…out and… I thought how nice it would be if… your hand held mine back. And now… you are…" She looked back up at him. He was still staring at her, his eyes wide and open… and darker. 

"You held my hand?" he asked. 

Sara looked away and swallowed. "Uh, yeah… I did…" 

His thumb had started to rub her skin sending shivers up her arms and down her body. "I don't know what to say…" 

She took a deep breath. "It was nothing really…" she said, shrugging her shoulders. "Just what a… a friend would do, you know…"

His face seemed to close a bit. "A friend…" he repeated as though testing the word to see if it was what she had said. 

"Yeah… a friend."

He sighed. "Oh."

Just one word - one sound - yet it was so full of feeling it could have taken up much more room and time than it had. She felt it like a stabbing pain in her gut, his pain had become palpable for her. She had sensed as though they were getting somewhere again, somewhere they hadn't been in such a long time. And it was frightening her. It meant hope, hope that they might return to their previous ways of casual banter and flirting. But hope for her had only meant pain in the past, so she had pushed hope aside in favour of safer alternatives. Whereas she had felt him trying to bring them to that place again, fear made her bring them back out again. 

They needed to start out fresh again, she thought, as friends before they could go back anywhere near what they were. So she reiterated her statement. "Friend, Grissom. Just what a friend would do. You know, be there for a friend in time of need." When he didn't respond as she had hoped, she sat down keeping his hand in hers and decided to push it. "You know, friendships can take many different forms, Griss." He looked at her, his eyes full of questions. "When you get out, how about I make us a dinner to celebrate your recovery." She offered in way of a reconciliation of sorts. 

"Dinner?" he said incredulously.

She pursed her lips to keep from smiling. "Yeah, you know, I _do _cook! It's not _just _take-out!" 

"Really?" he said, his good humour returning. 

If looks could kill… "You know… if you weren't so incapacitated I'd hit you!"

"Now, now… no violence in the work place, Miss Sidle."

An eyebrow rose. "We ain't at work, Mr. Grissom. This is personal time, here." 

His eyebrow rose as well. "Personal?"

She caught the gist of his tone. "Personal, Griss. This is my time, my choice. I want to be here… with you." She kept her gaze steady on his. And this time, her thumb rubbed against his skin and she was rewarded by his sudden intact of breath, the slight flushing of his skin and the darkening of his eyes. She licked her suddenly dry lips and was further rewarded when his gaze dropped to her lips and then back up to her eyes and his own were now even darker than before. 

His eyes searched her face for signs that this was anything but what he hoped they were. Her eyes, which had never lied to him, told him what he needed to know. Her friendship knew no bounds when it came to him, and there was possibility for more… in time.


	9. Seeing

It didn't take long for Grissom to heal and he was back to his old arcane self in no time. A week of healing in the hospital under the watchful eye of his doctor was succeeded by a convalescing time at his home. 

He sat on his couch, feet propped up on the table with the latest forensic magazine on his lap. He tried to concentrate on the article but his mind kept going back to its original thought. _Where was Sara? _He had gotten used to her daily visits to him in the hospital. His eyes opened every morning staring at the clock, counting the minutes until she usually got there, which had been between eight and nine o'clock in the morning. She would stay until around noon and then leave to rest. But she would always be back by supper – and bringing some _real _food – and then off to work again by seven. It had become routine and one he had come to trust in. 

Now he sat on his couch, alone with a magazine which, surprisingly enough, was _not _capturing his interest as it normally would have. He looked once again at his phone and debated for probably the tenth time that morning whether or not to call her. He had never actually _asked _her to come and visit him, it had just sorta _happened. _And now he missed her something fierce. Even a forensic magazine couldn't keep his mind off her. Taking a deep breath and tossing the magazine onto the table, he leaned over – careful of his arm in the sling – and dialed her number, _again. _It rang once. It rang twice. At the third ring he was just about to hang up, the fear having gripped him to tightly, when it was picked up. He heard some fumbling and then a groggy voice, "Sidle." 

He had her woken up! He sat with the phone by his ear saying nothing. Maybe he could hang up and pretend it was a wrong number. With what little sleep she usually got and he had to go and wake her up. It was only ten o'clock in the morning, what was she doing sleeping?! But social decorum dictated now that she was awake he ought to say something. "Sara, I'm sorry I woke you up – ."

"Grissom?" She sounded a bit more awake now. 

"Uh, yeah. I, uh… uh, I…"

"What is it, Griss?" Did she sound annoyed?

"Well, I uh… I missed you?" And why did that have to sound so pathetic? Why couldn't he just come out and say it? 

"You missed me?" 

Grissom swallowed the lump the fear in his throat. "Uh, yeah. I did. You know, you get into a routine and then when it changes it's sorta… jars you….?"

"Routine?"

She didn't understand. "Yeah, routine. Uh…"

"Griss? Say it."

He took a deep breath. "I missed you coming to see me every day in the hospital and I was wondering if you were gonna - if you'd like to – if you wanted to - ."

"Come over?"

He exhaled deeply. "Yeah…" 

There was silence on the other end. What did that mean?

"Give me an hour and I'll be there okay?"

His heart jumped in his chest. She was coming over! "Okay! Then, uh, I'll see you in an hour."

"Yeah." And then she hung up. 

Grissom sat back in the couch and sighed. She was coming over. 

  
~*~

The door bell rang about an hour and a half later and a jittery Grissom jumped from the couch, wincing as the sudden pain in his shoulder caught him off guard. He'd been waiting rather impatiently for the first hour, tidying up as much as could with his one good arm and a body too doped up to really care about the other arm. Being a meticulous clean freak meant that tidying up took all of fifteen minutes: no dishes to wash - they were always done as soon as eating was done, nothing to really put away except for the magazines he had tried to read that morning, sweeping was a no-show with only one good arm, so that left sprucing up his couch by rearranging the cushions somewhat and straightening some books that didn't need straightening. 

The last half hour was spent sitting on the couch and then jumping up to check out his window and then sitting back down, checking the television, and then running back to the window. In the middle of all this he actually remembered to take his pain medication, but only because the sudden amount of movement he was forcing on his body this morning only served to bring about more pain what with the jarring motions of jumping up and spinning around in his haste. 

So when the doorbell actually did ring - he missed seeing her walk up his steps, how could he have done that? he'd been there almost ever minute! - he was at it in a flash. Routine dictated that he look through his peep hole before opening the door which caused him to appear rather normal when it was finally opened - as though he hadn't _actually_ ran for the door. 

And there she stood, in all her morning glory - fresh washed and scented with that glorious gap-toothed smile on the ready for him. "Hey! So I hear you need some company!" she said, grinning at him before waltzing into this apartment and beginning to look around. "You know, I've never been here before." 

"Yeah, I know." Grissom said as he shut the door and turned to her. She was looking at him with an expectant look, like a visitor would look at a host expecting a host's actions. "I, uh, never liked people in my home before. It makes me nervous. But..." he shrugged. "People change." 

Sara smiled. "Yeah, they do. So... your couch?"

"Over there." 

"I see." She headed for it and sat down, waiting for him to either join her, or not. He sat down beside her. 

Places have different atmospheres and as such different effects of people. In the hospital – a relatively public place – there was a sense of relaxation between them as though the place itself were a sort of chaperon for their burgeoning feelings. They could sit and talk and the sounds from the hallway were a constant reminder that the nurse could walk in at any moment and interrupt them. So there had been extrinsic urges to remain on a platonic plane of relating. 

But here in the confines and solitude of his apartment with not much chance for interruption, the atmosphere was much different. It was charged with unspoken energy neither of them could admit it. 

Sara could feel him sitting beside her and even though she wasn't looking at him, she could still _feel _his posture. She could feel his nervousness and fear of the unknown, it was not much different from her own. Whereas most of their conversations took place at work or in public places, this was very new to both of them and neither knew how to proceed. 

Grissom took a deep breath and, looking down at his hands, spoke first "You know, where I was in the hospital, I remember hearing your voice…"

Sara's head snapped up. "Uh… my voice?" It wasn't without some trepidation that she wondered what exactly he was talking about. 

"Yeah… I could hear your voice, and uh…" he stopped here. How was he going to say what he really wanted to say without sounding like some existential nutcase? 

"You heard my voice? When?" 

"When I was… _out_. I don't remember much only that I heard you and… and I wanted to come back."

Sara sat speechless for a moment. He could hear her? "Oh." Was all she could think of to say. 

There was a silence between them as each pondered their own reasons for being here. Grissom had needed to see her again. After spending most of every day working with her and having her visit him every day in the hospital the sudden loneliness was just _too much _like that grey place he'd been in. He needed to at least hear her voice. But here she was and he was saying nothing of much consequence. "You _heard _me…? Speaking?"

Grissom looked up at her. "Uh no. Not words… not really." His body shifted so that he was facing her square on. "I heard your voice. Coming and going. And I realized that… I didn't want to live if I couldn't hear your voice anymore." 

Sara stared at him, gape mouthed. In all her life, one could count on one hand the amount of times Sara Sidle had been rendered speechless, and this made the beginning of the second hand. Her heart had started pounding in her chest and the blood rushing in her ears. She felt her body begin to shake ever so slightly as her breathing came in jerky gasps. She licked her lips and went to speak but no words came out. "You know… they – the doctors – said that…" she took a deep breath, "they lost you a few times on the table in the operating room. They said that, it was like… you… didn't want to live."

Grissom lowered his head and closed his eyes. The memory of his thoughts before the incident of getting shot came to him - how the pain didn't really hit until later, how his thoughts had become so wrapped up in self-deprecation - that the thought of it all ending with one bullet had seemed fitting, in some twisted analogous sort of way. "I remember… grey. It was so grey and dark and cold, _godamn _it was so cold! And nothing I could do would keep me warm. There was no sound, nothing to see but the grey all around me. And I was alone. It felt… it felt just like everyday, except that here I really _was _alone." He paused. "I remember a bright light," he harumphed. "Yeah, a bright white light, but it was warm and sweet and gentle. But it never stayed long. It was like someone _pulled _it back, took it away from me. And I was alone again." Sara sat beside him, unaware of the tears that had begun to roll down her cheek at his words. He spoke while looking away, his eyes lost in that time. He raised his head, as though looking at something above them, maybe a memory of that light. "And then came the sweetest sound of all: your voice. It came to me like I was under water, far away and garbled. There were no words, only your voice." His eyes searched the air, seeing where he had been. "It would come and then it would leave, but when it was there I felt like… I felt _good_, and _alive. _In a way I hadn't felt in such a long time. And I realized I _wanted _to hear your voice _all the time. _I never wanted to be in a place where I couldn't hear you," he turned to look at Sara, his own eyes shiny and pink with unshed tears. "where I couldn't see you, or touch you, or hold you or be with you." Sara tried to swallow the lump in her throat. "And then the strangest thing, the only thing that told me that I was really still alive… my hand started to burn and itch and sting," he held up his right hand. "it was painful but really good kind of pain, you know? If I could feel it then that must mean I was still alive and there was still hope. I mean, I could hear your voice like you there with me and my hand… was alive." Sara reached up and took his hand, covering it with both of hers, her thumbs rubbing his skin. Grissom looked at his hand in hers; her small thin white hands enveloping his big rough one, and his fingers curled around hers and held on, squeezing as though it were a life line. He looked back up at Sara, his eyes wider, his breathing more jagged. 

Sara shrugged slightly. "I needed to feel you," she said as the tears continued to fall. "I needed to touch you, to feel your warmth, to know that you were still alive. So I held your hand all the time I was there. Praying and hoping that one day your fingers might wrap around mine and hold me too."

He tried to hold back a sob. There was so much inside him that wanted to come out, so much he wanted her to know, how much this meant to him, but even the richness of the english language had no words to describe his feelings so he merely squeezed her hand harder, wrapping his other one around hers, so they each held one another's hands. "Sara…" her name was all that would come out, but that one word carried with it such a weight of indescribable feeling, it washed over her like a wave, pulling her to him as their hands released each others and came around and held them together. Like two souls, each searching for the other, searching for a place to call home, had finally found that one place were everything felt good and right. 


End file.
